A sector
It was just like the time when my English teacher asked why I was looking at her arm. She was leaning on the desk right in front of me. I didn’t want to look at her face and I didn’t want to look at her breasts. I didn’t want to be rude and look away so I looked at her arm. I shrugged. How could I explain my motives?
This time is like that time because, behind them both are those barbed traps to catch and accumulate that quantity: irresolve. And oh yes, irresolve is a nasty bastard of a Pikefish. Imagine how it would look like to see that pike writhing and unspurling, scraping off it’s own skin against the halved bamboo trap walls, down to one eye and spewing and shitting all sorts of mucal rage. Imagine now us all holding our shuddering baskets of irresolve, terrified. Holding at arms length, all the time and Everywhere. Holding them even in that fucking Peter Stringfellow’s club, convincing ourselves that we don’t have such things in our lives.
Miss Wilson could have developed a complex about her extremity. In retrospect, All I ever was then, was extremities and complexes, flailing round in an industrial tumble drier full of dog shit, in front of a live studio audience and on national television.
What was the time that that time was like? is the question to ask when you don’t start at the beginning. That time was like when I appeared to be rude at Kentucky Fried Chicken in Brixton. Trying to leave, I found myself at one side of the glass door facing some kind of young Slavic family. They evidently thought that the door could open both ways - or at least inwards, and were all sorts of wronged and offended when I pushed it open, towards them and shuffled past Mama and her tubular sectioned low budget stroller.
My God she was squeaking.
My God, I was marching away on my gangly pins.
